


Jonny Be Good

by scarvenrot



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Gen, Who the heck writes venture bros fanfic about Action Johnny, welcome to fic 112
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-03
Updated: 2015-12-03
Packaged: 2018-05-04 17:06:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5341817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarvenrot/pseuds/scarvenrot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I know you're never up for doing J.J. any favors, and yeah, the bastard's about two clowns short of a rodeo, but this is your childhood friend you're talking about. The guy's got nowhere to go.” Uncle Jonny comes over for a visit. Set during Season 3. Short chapters and illustrations!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jonny Be Good

Jonny woke up in the bathtub. This wasn't anything particularly new for him, but that didn't make it any less uncomfortable. He kept his eyes closed even as he jerked back into consciousness, the cold spray of the shower hitting his face like so many bee stings.

 

“Wake up, sleeping beauty,” a low, familiar voice ordered. Jonny's dry lips parted around a groan: an easier response than the word he wanted to say. Cold water trickled into his parched mouth. Brock Samson leaned down and grabbed Jonny by the collar, hoisting his thin body easily upright in the slippery tub. Jonny realized disinterestedly that he had one sock and no shoes on. Brock propped him against the tile wall of the shower, reaching over and shutting the water off. A large hand firmly slapped Jonny's face a few times, and finally Jonny opened his eyes, grimacing against the brightness of the bathroom lights. “Come on, Jon. Rise and shine.”

 

Brock looked anything but happy to see him. Brow furrowed intensely, blue eyes dark with annoyance, that characteristically tight jawline. He smelled faintly of an hour-old cigarette break and the remnants of the morning's cologne: something else vaguely recognizable.

 

 

Jonny snorted, then promptly vomited.

 

Brock let out a blended sigh and groan of disgust, raising a hand to his face and pinching the wide bridge of his nose. Jonny toppled forward in the shower, his watery vomit-wet body slapping against the muscle-taut front of Brock's black polo. Brock snarled and gripped Jonny's shoulders, pulling him out of the tub and shoving him unceremoniously past the sink onto the toilet. Jonny sat. Brock peeled his own soiled shirt off and threw it in the hamper.

 

“Clean yourself up, man. Doc wants to talk to you.”

 

Jonny looked lazily up at Brock, his eyes blinking separately from each other. Brock looked back at him, silent for a moment before grunting and shaking his head in disapproval. “...I'll leave fresh clothes for you outside the bathroom. Take a shower and get dressed. Doc'll be in the lab. I'll take you to him when you're ready. Come out and wait for me in the living room.”

 

Brock turned and left, and the door was painfully loud as it shut behind him. He thought he heard voices coming from the hallway, but silence soon followed, and Jonny closed his eyes again. He leaned back against the tank of the toilet, shivering. There were obvious questions to ask himself, none of which he was interested in knowing the answer to. His mouth was still dry and his nose was now clogged with vomit. Minutes passed before he hoisted himself up and felt for the edge of the tub, turning on the hot water with a shaking hand and moving the stopper into the drain. He knelt by the bathtub for another minute or so before climbing in, clothes still on, letting the warm, then hot water slowly rise around him.

 

Jonny leaned his head back against the side of the tub, moving shakily to remove his soaked clothes. They were stubborn and difficult to take off when they were waterlogged, and the bathtub had nearly overflowed by the time he got his single sock and pants off. His sweater was still heavy with water and vomit. Jonny turned the water off before he lay himself back down, exhausted, and he stayed in the water for several long minutes, ruminating in filth he didn't particularly care about getting rid of. His head swam as he dozed off.

 

_Venture. I'm at the Venture compound._

 

Where else could he be that Brock Samson would set foot in such a tastelessly decorated bathroom? It had been ages since Jonny had been in the old Venture place, but he would recognize it anywhere. He was definitely in the bathroom of the private residence attached to the main lab area. The green sheen of the bathtub and toilet and the brown tile floor were enough 70's-era modern home style to give Jonny a severe panic attack all on their own. The disgusting floral wallpaper on the accent wall didn't help on that front, either. But none of it surprised Jonny. Rusty Venture had never been one to waste money on pointless things like decorators, or updated plumbing, or keeping electrical systems up to code. This had been the man's bathroom as a child, and it was still so as an adult, complete with sliding mirrors over the sink and whining lightbulbs screwed into a row above the vanity.

 

This bathroom had felt like home, a long time ago.

 

A heavy fist pounded on the door from the adjoining room. “Jon, it's Brock. Are you dead in there?”

 

Jonny gagged on bathwater, half-asleep again. “N...no.”

 

“Who's Jon?” An unmistakable second voice from the other room. The nearer door cracked open, and Jonny saw a glimpse of a pale face and a wide eye staring at him from the hallway. Brock let himself back into the bathroom: he'd changed his shirt. He slid the hallway door shut and locked it, cutting off the face from staring, to an indignant “Hey!” and a gruffly answered “Later. Go to bed.”

 

When Brock was satisfied that he'd been listened to, he surveyed the bathroom, eyes gliding over the sopping mess on the floor that was Jonny's pants and the water soaking out of them, up to the man himself half-submerged in lukewarm bathwater. Brock closed his eyes for a moment, breathing out of his nose. “It's been four hours, man.”

 

Jonny tried to sit up. In spite of the disaster area that was the master bathroom, Brock could recognize that an effort—albeit a feeble one—had been made, but there was still no asking for permission before he set to work. Jonny's pants were wrung out and dumped in the hamper. Brock lifted the once-boy adventurer into a sitting position in the tub, freeing him wordlessly from his sweater and his underwear. Jonny kept his eyes shut as Brock drained the tub and adjusted the shower head on the wall, warming the water again. Jonny tried to remember where he'd been the night before, though all he could come up with was that, judging from his aching bones, he'd clearly been right here in the bathtub. One fist full of soap, Brock bathed him silently. This was not the most pathetic thing Brock Samson had ever done: he'd done both equally pathetic and worse things for Dr. Venture himself, on multiple occasions. Still, it wasn't something he would ever openly admit to anyone.

 

Jonny allowed himself to be rinsed with clean water and draped in a towel. Brock stood up, the knees and shins of his jeans wet from the drenched floor of the bathroom. “I'm not gonna dress you. I'll put your clothes on the vanity.” Jonny looked up at Brock blearily as the larger man turned and moved toward the hallway, lifting a pile of clothes from the floor of the master bedroom and placing them between the sinks. Their eyes met for a moment. “I'll tell Doc you're on your way. Just take the halls until you get to the lab area. You can't miss it. I know you've been here before.” Brock left the bathroom again. Jonny curled up in the towel and heaved out a shallow breath before struggling to get to his feet.

 


End file.
